


To not cut the ties

by ParadifeLoft



Series: I Will Burn Hotter Than the Sun [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people of Nargothrond celebrate an anniversary, but neither Finrod nor Curufin have found much reason for joy or merriment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To not cut the ties

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a collection of shortfic pieces, organised around the general theme of the sons of Fëanor being rather reminiscent of a centuries-long trainwreck.  
> (It would probably help here to recall that the first rising of the sun happened during/right after the Battle of the Lammoth, so right following the arrival of the exiles in Middle-Earth from the Helcaraxë and the deaths of Fëanor and Argon.)

“Cousin,” he greeted him, voice expansive enough that Curufin could himself hear in it a note of (purposefully exaggerated) surprise. “Have you already grown bored of your feast?”

Finrod only gave him a somewhat pained look as he took slow steps toward Curufin, and then finally sat down beside him on the couch, leaning in toward the flickering light of the flames in the hearth.

“It is not my own feast.”

Curufin put his wineglass to his lips and tipped it back, a long, lazy drink, then held it aloft to his cousin. He looked as though he needed it. And more so, from how quickly he received it.

“Mmm? Should you be per - perhaps more worried, that somebody thinks to throw parties in your name?”

He did not shift against the cushions, but his head tilted to the side, and he watched the way Finrod downed his borrowed wine. Slowly, but rather a lot of it.

He neglected to return the glass to Curufin when he finished. The metal gleamed in the firelight between his hands.

“The Moriquendi, and many of the Noldor, celebrate the rising of the Sun,” Finrod said. “I do not.”

There was something to be said there, Curufin was sure, but the words did not come effortlessly as usual and so he let those few he’d glimpsed sink back amidst the undisturbed pool of his thoughts.

He was not expecting the way Finrod then turned to face him, press the backs of his knuckles to Curufin’s arm, just above his elbow. “You’re warm.”

The knuckles curled around, became a palm, became fingers clenching into the skin and muscle there, and something shadowy flickered like a flame born from a sudden spark in his cousin’s expression, made of too many things in too short a time for Curufin to catch and trap them.

Finrod’s hair and robes shone like gold melted in the forge and his cheeks were very pink and Curufin could feel then the warmth in himself that Finrod had spoken of.

The grip relaxed soon, before it slipped away entirely.  And then replaced by his cousin sliding over, leaning against him, a solid weight propped against his side, snaking their arms together, just a little too tightly.

“Warm,” he repeated, mumbled under his breath, (not intentionally, he could guess), his gaze far away in the depths of the fire.

Curufin might have shaken him off. Might.

The wine glass found itself at Finrod’s lips again, and Curufin took it back when he finished this time, bringing it to his own lips and draining it.

He found himself muzzy-headedly comparing the taste of his own mouthful to that of Finrod’s, a moment, or several moments, later. ‘Ráto’s tasted better, somehow. He wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t quite sure it mattered, either.


End file.
